Ace Tales
by Archaeosine
Summary: A retelling of 'Deja Vu: A Nightmare Comes True' from Ace Harding's perspective.
1. Chapter 1

Ah, the hangover. There's nothing in the world quite like it. Waking up in a strange place with your head feeling like it's in a vice, trying to remember what happened in the past few hours but drawing a complete blank…it's certainly a unique experience. But "unique" doesn't go far enough in describing what happened to me. My situation was the kind of thing so bizarre you only experienced it once, 'cause you'd sooner kill yourself than go through it twice.

The moment I woke up in that bathroom stall, I knew I wasn't suffering from some run-of-the-mill hangover. You see, instead of having a plain old headache, it felt as if John Henry himself was driving a railroad spike into my skull. I was genuinely hoping for someone to come along and decapitate me; I'd be dead, but at least I'd be free of my throbbing cranium. I instinctively ran my hand through my hair and discovered the source of my woe: a gigantic bump on top of my head, practically raising my height by a foot. As I brought my hand down, I couldn't help but notice the rusty patches dotting my skin: dried blood, yet I didn't have an open wound anywhere on my body. Isn't it a relief to know that the blood you're coated in came from somebody else, not you? My left arm was sore as well, with a dull ache that grew into an intense pang as I regained consciousness. I rolled up my sleeve and, lo and behold, found my pallid skin contrasted by a swollen needle mark. And that wasn't the worst of it, either.

To top it all off, I had one hell of a case of memory loss. It was worse than anything you could get from an ordinary hangover. Not only did I have no memory of recent events, I had no memory at all! I couldn't even remember my goddamn name! Full-blown amnesia. It was the hangover from hell: waking up with a bump on my head, blood on my hand, a needle mark on my arm, and not a clue in my mind. Was I a lucky guy or what?

I leaned against the stall wall, massaging my temples with clammy fingers before pulling myself up. Surprisingly, I kept my cool, although you can probably chalk that up to being too disoriented to panic. In lieu of going into hysterics like a normal person, I decided there was only one thing to do: find out what had happened to me. My investigation was fated to begin in a bathroom stall. Classy.

A dark gray trench coat hung in front of me, dangling from a hook on the stall door. Was it mine? I slipped it on; it fit every contour of my body perfectly. Not a bad looking coat. Apparently, I had a good sense of fashion before my memory was shot.

Both coat pockets felt like they were holding something, so I took inventory of what was inside. I found a pack of cigarettes, some quarters, and a few items that seemed out of place: a fancy gold-plated lighter, a nice leather wallet, a handkerchief, and a pair of sunglasses. Both the wallet and the handkerchief proudly bared the letters "J.S." in gold thread. Did that stuff belong to me? Was I J.S.? I doubted it. I didn't know who I was, but my gut instincts told me I wasn't the type of guy who would go for that hoity-toity crap, much less have the money to buy it.

Something else hanging from the stall door caught my eye. It was a holstered revolver, a .38 special. I produced the gun from the worn leather holster and spun open the cylinder; three of the bullets were just empty shells. Someone had fired that baby, and my stomach sank with the realization that it could very well have been me.

Some fine mess I was in. I lit a cig with the lighter and took a couple of long drags, savoring every ounce of smoke. So sue me. They're my lungs, and it's my right to screw 'em up if I want to. Besides, I had blood on my hands, no memory, and a gun packing three spent casings. If there was ever a time when I needed the consolation of sweet lady tobacco, it was then.

Crushing out the cigarette under my shoe, I holstered the revolver and slung it around my shoulder. It still had three unused bullets in it: bullets that I knew might be needed soon. I opened the stall door and attempted to walk out, promptly discovering I was barely capable of moving around. I was quite the spectacle, a grown man stumbling like a sailor who hadn't gotten his sea legs yet.

If you told me that, somewhere on this planet, there was a dirtier bathroom than the one I was in, I'd call you crazy. I don't think a janitor ever stepped foot in that room. The grime that coated the walls in there must have been at least an inch thick; the place really did look like shit. Not surprising when you considered its purpose.

Above the sink hovered an ancient mirror, smudged by what must have been decades of service in that cesspool. I checked my reflection; the face that stared back at me was unfamiliar. He was quite the handsome stranger. If only I knew his name.

I let my shaky feet guide me out of the bathroom and into a desolate tavern. Beams of moonlight shined into the room though plate-glass windows, bathing the wooden floor in grey. I walked across the floorboards, steadying myself with the rail along the counter, and pulled on the front door to see if I could reach the streets. No such luck; locked. Didn't really matter, though. It's not like I had the foggiest notion of where to go.

A shot glass on the counter caught my eye, gleaming in the moonlight like a booze-scented diamond. Stamped in red capital letters along its side were the words "JOE'S BAR." So that was the name of the place? "Joe's Bar?" Boy, that Joe was one creative fellow.

With the door refusing to budge, climbing the staircase in the corner of the room seemed as good an idea as any. I tried to go upstairs quietly, thinking maybe someone was up there who'd mistake me for a burglar, but I soon realized it was pointless; those old steps creaked like a bastard no matter how careful you were. Besides, with me being so out of it I could barely even walk, I just didn't have the coordination for stealth.

I found myself in a second-story hallway, its walls decorated with posters of fighters. There didn't seem to be anything unusual about them…except for one. Seeing that poster gave me goosebumps: it was the same face I saw in the mirror! There I was, dressed in full boxing regalia, on a poster! Things just kept getting weirder. According to the poster, my name was Ace…it had a nice ring to it. And even if I had no memories of being a boxer, I certainly felt as punch-drunk as any pugilist.

Staring at a poster of myself wasn't going to get me anywhere, so I continued down the hall. I was getting used to walking in a stupor, but therein lay the problem: the stupor itself. I felt like I was moving through a haze, as if I had been drugged. Given the needle mark on my arm, that probably wasn't far from the truth.

Opening the door at the end of the hallway unleashed a wave of cheap-smelling perfume on my nostrils; the room from which the nasal assault emanated looked to be a reception. I took a quick peek inside the secretary's desk. What can I say? I'm a curious guy. Besides, it's not like she was there to catch me in the act. I didn't find much, either, just a bill from a doctor named Brody. Someone at Joe's had ordered a bunch of crazy-sounding drugs from the doc, chemicals with names like "Diethanol Trimene." Why the hell would you need that stuff at a bar? Beat me. I decided to hold onto the bill. It had the address of a doctor, and I knew I'd need to see someone about my amnesia.

A door stood right next to the desk, but I quickly learned it was locked. Ol' Ace was stuck. I fumbled through the wallet I found in my pocket; Ol' Ace wasn't stuck for long. In addition to a 20-dollar bill and some screwy-looking card with holes punched in it, the wallet had a key to unlock the room. The wooden door slowly creaked open, giving me a look inside. The sight I saw was quite interesting, to say the least.

You know what can really ruin your day, especially when you've got a gun with three spent shells in the cylinder? Finding a body that's been shot three times. Oh, I was a lucky guy, all right.


	2. Chapter 2

That face set off the klaxons in my head. I felt like I knew the guy before I lost my memory, but what was his name? Obviously, I couldn't expect any help from him. His rigid body lay slumped over a blood-spattered desk, three crimson circles with bullet hole bull's-eyes staining his white shirt.

I was beginning to wonder if I really did shoot him. There was something about his face…something that made my blood boil. I had a notion that I once knew the man well, and that he was the type of guy you'd shed no tears for when he kicked the bucket. You ever have that little nagging suspicion that you've met someone before, but you just can't recall who he is? I did, and boy, was it annoying. I think there's a French term for it, "deja-something-or-other."

A key dangled from the pocket of the dearly departed, engraved with a symbol that looked like an upside-down "Y." Maybe it was for a car? Whatever its purpose, the key found a new home in a different pocket: mine.

The drawers of the bloodstained mahogany desk were barren except for a pencil and a differently shaped key, labeled with the word "FRONT." How thoughtful of the fellow, labeling a key for the benefit of any poor amnesiac who happened to find it. I swiped the pencil, too; you never know when one can come in handy.

Peeking into the room from outside the office window was some sort of structure, partially obscured by a set of curtains. Did I dare to find out what it was? Dare I did. Behind curtain number one…a fire escape! Call me crazy, but all of a sudden, going back downstairs and testing that key on the front door seemed too damn inconvenient. Fire escapes are the only way to travel, don't you agree?

A blast of frigid air gusted into the room the instant I opened the window. A sane person might have second thoughts about my escape plan, but seeing as how I just denoted "crazy" as an appropriate name for myself, you can bet that wasn't the case for me. Of course, that didn't change the fact that it was one mighty cold night to climb out onto a fire escape. Just breathing in the outside air was enough to make my innards feel iced over.

Standing on the fire escape gave me an excellent view of wherever the hell I was. Distant skyscrapers lit up the horizon, but the unimpressive height of nearby buildings informed me I was in a more residential area. An icy wind swept through the desolate streets, stray newspapers taking to the air as they hitched rides on the gusts. What a crummy city. It suited me fine.

I considered taking the escape ladder down to the alley bellow, but a second window on the platform had caught my eye. And what was so appealing about it, you may ask? Well, it was unlocked, and that was all the invitation I needed. Plus, it seemed like a safer alternative to gripping the numbingly cold iron rungs of the ladder. What I didn't realize, though, was that climbing the ladder would've been less scary than what I discovered.

The room I found must have been right above the bar, but it shared no door with the second-story office. Hell, it looked like the only way to reach the place besides the window was by elevator. I felt like I was living through a nightmarish dream, and that elevator wasn't helping to make the situation any less surreal; what was an expensive piece of machinery doing in a dump like that? The stench of mold, the bile-colored paint peeling off the walls…jeez, the room was a mess.

But the paintjob wasn't the only thing horrific about the room. Sitting against a wall was a most peculiar example of furniture: a chair with leather restraints by the head and armrests. I knew something screwy was up the moment I saw that thing, and what I found next didn't do much to change that. A syringe and two empty vials were strewn about the floor. I picked one vial up; the label read "Sodium Pentothal." The other, "Diethanol Trimene." They were the same drugs on the bill from Brody! Remembering the needle mark on my arm, I had an awful suspicion that someone had strapped me into that chair and treated me as their personal pincushion.

What the hell had I gotten myself into? Some sicko had pumped me full of drugs…that kind of stuff just shouldn't happen to a guy like me! I started feeling sick to my stomach knowing what I'd been put through, but the nausea soon passed. A different sensation quickly settled in my gut: rage. I was more determined than ever to get back at the bastards who screwed with me. Nobody messed with Ace Whatever-My-Last-Name-Was and got away with it!

I wasn't going back on the frozen fire escape for a million bucks (actually, I probably would've done it for that kind of money, but you get the picture), so I was stuck traveling by elevator. You'd think anyone rich enough to buy a fancy elevator would fork over the dough to keep their bathrooms in decent condition, but that apparently wasn't so at Joe's Bar. I pressed the button for the lowest floor, and with a mechanical whirr, the elevator whisked me away to my destination. Hey, it beat climbing an icy ladder.

As the elevator doors opened, I had a feeling that gambling was frowned upon in whatever state I was in. After all, the owner of the bar had obviously gone out of his way to keep under wraps his underground casino, which I'd just discovered. He had done a damn good job, too. If it weren't for the elevator, I wouldn't have even known it existed. Boy, that casino had the works: roulette tables, craps tables, and slot machines, all illuminated by the soft light from stained-glass lamps hanging from the ceiling. I admit, it was pretty inviting. You could really get sucked into a place like that, gambling away for hours until your pockets were empty.

I had a few quarters on me, so I figured, "What the hell?" I needed to unwind, and slot machines were the perfect choice. They were also the only choice, seeing as how every other game required dealers, and the casino was completely deserted. I slid a quarter into a one-armed bandit and pulled the handle, letting the spinning dials hypnotize me with visions of a payoff. Seven…another seven! All I needed was a trio of sevens and I'd be in the money! For a moment, I forgot all about my dilemma. I could feel the excitement running through my body like a current, electrifying my soul with anticipation. What would the final dial stop on? C'mon, number seven! I got a lemon. The prize for seven-seven-lemon? Nothing. Shit.

Well, I couldn't see the harm in playing another round. Quarter in slot…seven…bar…lemon. Okay, when I said another round, I actually meant two more rounds. Figure of speech, you know. Another quarter…seven, seven, and seven! Jackpot! The metallic jingle of cascading quarters was music to my ears. I guess Dame Fortune was on my side after all.

An oversized number wheel hanging from the wall had been tempting me ever since I stepped foot in the casino. Why did I want to spin it? Just because I could, I guess. I felt that if I left without giving it a spin, I'd be missing out on a fun opportunity. And yes, I'm aware of how ridiculously impulsive that sounds.

As I set the big wheel into motion, it slid noiselessly into the ground, revealing a hidden path. You see? Being impetuous can pay off. The passage brought me to a dank cellar, lit only by a bare light bulb hanging by a chord. I walked through the door on the other side of the cellar and found myself back in the barroom, an open path now visible in the wall behind me. Gotta love the ingenuity of secret passages.

Surprise, surprise, the key labeled "FRONT" actually unlocked the bar's front door! I couldn't believe it myself, either. The wind apparently never died down in that city, as a bone-chilling gale greeted me the moment I walked outside Joe's Bar. A nearby streetlamp glowed with an electric hum, immersing a fancy-looking car in a pillar of orange light. The car's hood ornament, shining with a yellowish hue under the streetlamp, looked strangely familiar…the key! It was the same upside-down "Y" on the key I found in the stiff's pocket! "MERCEDES-BENZ" read the lettering across the car's hood. Jeez, what a behemoth that automobile was. It practically took up half the road. You couldn't help but suspect that any guy who bought a car like that was trying to compensate for something he owned in a less-than-average size.

I unlocked the passenger side door with my late friend's key and collected my thoughts as I sat in the Benz. Boy, were those leather seats comfy! If there was ever a car that treated your ass like royalty, that was the one. I was almost tempted to have a quick nap, but I knew I couldn't take the risk. It was only a matter of time before someone reported the dead man as missing, and once that happened, the entire block would be swarming with flatfoots.

Drunks don't make good drivers, and I imagined that a drugged amnesiac would be even worse behind the wheel. Driving the car was right out, but as I've said before, my curiosity knew no bounds. I wasn't ready to move on just yet.

I took a peek inside the dashboard of the Benz. According to the folded map in there, the name of the city was "Chicago." Huh. That wasn't the important part, though. Someone had inked a path on the map and written a note. I squinted my eyes to read the sloppy handwriting.

"Ace, follow this route exactly. Complex it may be, but this way, you'll have no trouble spotting anyone who tries tailing you. And watch the speed limit! The last thing you need is to be stopped by the cops at a time like this."

I couldn't stand not knowing what I'd gotten mixed up in. Some big plan had gone down and I had something to do with it, but I didn't have a single goddamn clue what had happened in the past 24 hours…or my entire life, for that matter. I was living through a nightmare, all right.

The dashboard also held the registration for the car, as well as a snapshot of a…let's just say "corpulent," woman. I couldn't see any use for the picture, but the registration was another story. The owner of the car was a "Joseph Siegel" of 1212 West End Street. The same guy who put the "Joe" in "Joe's Bar?" The same "J.S." who monogrammed his initials on the wallet? The same fellow with three bullets in his chest? Perhaps I'd pay his abode a visit. I thought about seeing Doc Brody, but at such a late hour, I seriously doubted the doctor was in.

I took a stroll down the windswept street, huddling into my trench coat and keeping an eye out for anyone I could hitchhike with. Looking down the road for approaching cars, you can imagine my surprise when I heard a voice shout, "Freeze!" from behind me.

Hoping I wouldn't be looking down the barrel of a copper's gun, I slowly turned around. I was in luck; a mugger was pointing his gun at me instead. "Gimme all your money, now!" he shouted in a gruff voice. He was one scruffy looking son-of-a-bitch, and he had no manners to boot. He could've at least done the decent thing and said "please." Frankly, I was in no mood to be robbed. I had a past to reconstruct, and that guy was keeping me from my investigation. I slugged the sucker in the jaw with a right hook, sending him stumbling away in a panic. You know, I gotta hand it to that mugger. He may not have known how to fire a gun, but he didn't drop it once, even after I clobbered him with a punch. And it was a nice punch, too. I was quite impressed with my own striking ability. That settled it; I really was a boxer.

I walked past a newsstand, manned by its faithful owner even at whatever ungodly hour of the night it was. I glanced at one of the papers. The date: December 6, 1941. The headline: Japanese bomb Pearl Harbor. It's amazing how little you care about things like that when you're an amnesiac trying to piece together the puzzle of your life.

I heard the rumble of an automobile from behind me. Doing an about face, I spotted an approaching yellow car with a checkered stripe along its side. I flagged it down; the driver immediately stopped. Boy, was that simple. He must have really cared about hitchhikers. I tried to open the front passenger door, but the driver motioned for me to take the backseat instead.

It was one strange car, especially on the inside. There was some sort of windowed partition separating the front and back seats, and built into it was a metal slot with the words "PAY HERE" above it.

"Hey, would you mind helping me out?" I asked the driver. "I've got a few places I need to go."

"Sure, as long as they're within Chicago city limits."

"Really?"

"Of course, mac! What do you think taxis are for?"

"…Taxis?" The word rang a bell.

"You know, taxis! Ever heard of them? You tell me where to go, I drive you there, and you pay the fare. Simple as that! Jeez, mac, were you raised on a farm?"

"Sorry, I haven't been myself lately. I need to be at 1212 West End Street. You familiar with that area?"

Adjusting his cap, the driver gave a nod and off we went. The omnipresent taxi, forever waiting to take you wherever your heart desired…as long as your heart desired to stay within city limits. What an amazing world I lived in. How could I have forgotten it?


	3. Chapter 3

West End Street was one ritzy part of Chicago, and Sanford Arms, building number 1212, was the swankiest place on the block. Two decorative pillars adorned the entrance to the polished granite skyscraper, informing all passer-bys that its tenants were rich enough to live in a place with marble columns. Oh, how I love high society.

"You mind waiting for me?" I asked the taxi driver after I had paid my fare.

"No problem, but I'll have to tack on a 5 cent fee for each minute you keep me out here. Company policy."

"Is that so? You know, buddy, I'm sure there are plenty of cabbies who would love to have a passenger at this hour of the night. Maybe I should take my business elsewhere."

The driver opened his mouth as if about to say something, but just rolled his eyes and turned away with a sigh. The waiting fee was never mentioned again. Do I know how to haggle, or what?

If you thought the exterior of Sanford Arms was showy, you should've seen the lobby. The gigantic room, well-lit thanks to the crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, had its marble walls decked out with rows of fern-filled planters. There was even a red velvet carpet running across the tiled floor, stretching from the entranceway to the elevator. Talk about the celebrity treatment. I was sure glad that the staff wasn't around to see me; they were probably trained to detect and remove anyone who didn't have at least 200 bucks in their pocket.

The lobby elevator was different from the one at Joe's Bar; instead of having buttons to press, this one only had a slot. The elevator doors refused to budge without first being fed a key or something. I thought I had reached a dead end until I remembered the card I'd found in the "J.S." monogrammed wallet. Printed on it were the words "PRIVATE ACCESS CARD - PENTHOUSE SUITE - SIEGEL." It certainly looked like J.S. was the same person as Joseph Siegel, but why did I have his stuff? I'd have to figure that out later.

The doors slid open on command as I pushed the hole-punched card into the slot. Inside the elevator was the exact same type of receptacle for a card, no buttons at all. One reading of the card later and I was on my way to the penthouse, courtesy of Mr. Siegel. Lucky bastard had the entire top floor to himself; the elevator even went straight to his digs instead of bringing you to a hallway or something.

If Siegel was the same fellow who had snuffed it at the bar, I could safely say he deserved it, if only for his apartment; that place was so goddamn ostentatious I practically felt sick. With his plush carpeting and furniture that just screamed "ladies' man," you could tell he was trying to fashion himself as playboy of the century. He even had a leopard-print sofa, for crying out loud! What the hell would possess a guy to buy a leopard-print sofa? And what kind of woman would want Siegel on that thing, the very epitome of all that is tacky?

His apartment may have been the visual equivalent of ipecac, but that didn't mean it was useless to me. On top of Siegel's fireplace sat a picture of a dame, her lips curved into a half-smile. She was quite the looker, and an address was scribbled on the back of her photo: 520 South Kedzie. That address was the only thing I had going for me, and thus, another stop was added to my scenic tour of Chicago. I hightailed it out of Sanford Arms (had I stayed there a moment longer, I probably would've vomited all over Mr. Leopard-Print-Sofa's precious upholstery) and returned to the waiting cab.

"I've gotta make a stop at 520 South Kedzie," I announced as I opened the taxi door. "Good with you?"

The driver chuckled.

"Okay, mac, but just remember: I ain't responsible for anything that happens to you once you get there."

I began to wonder what he was talking about, but it didn't take long for the meaning behind his words to become apparent. As we neared our destination, I couldn't help but notice the changing scenery. And believe me, the scenery changed a lot. I swear, you could be staring out the window, and each time you blinked, you'd find things looking more and more dilapidated. By the time we reached South Kedzie, the surroundings had morphed into the slum to end all slums.

"So we're good with the free waiting thing, right?"

"Yeah, yeah," grumbled the driver in reply. "But I really oughta be getting hazard pay just for being in a five-mile radius of this place…"

I stepped out of the cab and found myself in front of a run-down bungalow, the number 520 crudely carved into the rotting wood of the front door. No reply came from within to answer my knocking, but I refused to let that stop me. On the contrary, it meant that I'd be free to investigate the bungalow in peace if I could just find a way inside.

What to do, what to do? I didn't have a lock pick, but I had a mighty fine substitute: a revolver. I grabbed the .38 special, aimed for the doorknob, and one gunshot later, I was inside the bungalow; the bullet had cut through the rotting door like butter, and the doorknob was blown clean off. My method, as crude as it was, had worked like a charm. Maybe I oughta moonlight as a locksmith.

I hadn't thought it was possible, but that bungalow looked even worse on the inside than the out. The groaning floorboards seemed ready to collapse at any minute, and the damp wooden walls looked weaker than cardboard. A tattered rag, which I can only assume was supposed to be a curtain, hung over a grime-covered window. The place probably would've reeked of mold if it weren't for the lingering scent of cheap perfume. In fact, it smelled a lot like the secretary's room at Joe's Bar.

The bungalow was pretty much devoid of anything that would make a home livable. In fact, there were only two items of furniture in the entire place: a tiny cot, and a wooden table with a single drawer. After extensive deliberation, I came to the conclusion that the drawer just might have been a good place to search. I know, I know: that deduction was nothing short of genius.

The contents of the drawer turned out to be a key and a diary. The unmarked key looked different from the other ones I'd found; something about it seemed new, freshly made. I wondered if it was a duplicate.

As for the diary, it shouldn't surprise you to learn that I had no qualms over looking through it. And let me tell you, it was one gripping diary. I couldn't stop myself from poring over every seedy detail in that thing. The writer hadn't signed the bookplate with her name, but whoever she was, she lived quite the interesting life. She mentioned an affair with "John Sternwood," a married man with "money out the ass" and a "goddamn bitch of a wife" who aspired to "crushing his balls in the palm of her hand." She wrote multiple times of her wish to run away with John: as she so eloquently put it, "He's got the hots for me, and I've got the hots for his bank account." The writer even mentioned the name of her jealous employer and one-time lover, the man himself, Joseph Siegel. Boy, Siegel was popping up everywhere I went.

I would've spent more time reading that diary if it weren't for the fact that I could barely stay conscious by that point. Whatever I had been drugged with, it was pretty damn potent. I didn't care if Doc Brody wasn't at his office; I was going to find a remedy with or without his help. I checked over the address on Brody's bill and stumbled my way back to the taxi.

"934 West Sherman," I muttered to the driver.

"I'm on my way. You know, mac, you ain't sounding too good."

"I've noticed."

The cab stopped in front of a plain-looking brick office building in a plain-looking area of Chicago. The front door was open, but I didn't see anyone around as I walked inside. A sign above a nearby locked door read "Dr. Brody." I had found the doc's office, but was he in? Knock knock. No answer. Time for plan B.

I was just about ready to let my revolver do the unlocking, but then I remembered the unmarked key I had picked up at the bungalow. Hey, it was worth a try. I slid the key into the lock and gave it a turn: click! It actually worked! But what, precisely, had Madame Bungalow been doing with the key? I didn't have time to worry about stuff like that just yet; I was on the fast track to turning into a zombie, and I'd have to act soon.

Vials filled with all sorts of drugs were stacked inside Brody's wooden cabinet. Of course, I had no idea what a single one of them was for. Maybe the doc had some documents to help me out. His file cabinet seemed a likely place to look, but a combination lock hindered my snooping around. I thought about trying the stethoscope method (after all, there was no shortage of stethoscopes in a doctor's office) to unlock it, but I figured that the Ace method would be just as effective and twice as fun. A bullet from my revolver did a swell job at cracking Brody's combo. Sorry, doc, but if you didn't want amnesiacs blasting apart your file cabinet, you shouldn't have kept it locked.

I checked through the files to see if there was anything on Sodium Pentothal and Diethanol Trimene, the drugs from the bill. Found a paper…"Sodium Pentothal - Brings subject to a state of altered consciousness in which a total lack of inhibitions makes them liable to speak truthfully. Subjects under the influence of Sodium Pentothal tend to divulge their deepest secrets without thinking anything unusual of it." So I had been spilling my guts to whoever had drugged me? How embarrassing.

Another one stood out…"Diethanol Trimene - A drug that, when administered, effectively blocks the memory of the subject. Memory loss will become permanent if the antidote, Bisodiumitis, is not taken within several hours of injection." Yeesh. Serious stuff. I knew what I needed to look for.

I ransacked the doc's stash of concoctions: Sodium Bicarbonate, Chemopapin, Medrezine…Bisodiumitis! I grabbed a syringe, filled it with the contents of the vial, and jabbed it into a vein in my arm. Boy, getting your memory back was one hell of a sensation. I could practically feel a wave sweeping through my mind, clearing away the fog that had kept me in the darkness.

Everything started coming back to me…I was Ace Harding, private investigator extraordinaire. And Brody wasn't just any doctor; he was mine. He even let me rent the office upstairs from him. We shared the same key…and apparently, someone had made a duplicate of it. I felt my chest begin to tighten. I needed to keep my guard up; I didn't know who was in the building with me.

Moving as quietly as possible, I made my way to the second floor. A door stood in front of me, bearing an opaque window with the words "Ace Harding: Private Eye" printed across it. I could just barely make out the silhouette of someone standing behind the window. I wasn't one to shoot first and ask questions later, but this time, I couldn't afford to be cautious. I aimed my revolver at the silhouette's head and pulled the trigger, firing the final bullet in the cylinder. A gunshot pierced the air as a bullet hole formed in the window, blood droplets spattering on the other side of the glass. The silhouette stood no more.

The duplicate key unlocked the door, just as I suspected. Ah, my office. Nice and plain. I never much cared about office decor, but I was quite happy with the new addition to my room: a dead hit man. He lay sprawled out along the wooden floor, a pool of blood forming at his head. Sitting to the left of his body was a fedora; to the right, a revolver. A word of advice: if you're gonna be a hired gun, you probably shouldn't reveal your presence to your quarry. If you do, the underground world will find itself short one inept hit man. It's Darwin's Law in action, baby.

I rummaged through my desk, hoping for any clues I might have left myself. I came across a typewritten letter, just as intriguing as the bungalow lady's diary.

"Ace,

You know how you've been begging for more time to pay off your debts? Do this right, and you can consider yourself off the hook. We're talking a simple kidnap job here. All you have to do is pick up a wealthy woman and drop her off where I tell you to go. Unless you start coughing up the dough you owe me, this is the only way for you to kiss your debts good-bye. Give my darling secretary a call if you don't want to end up sporting a toe tag in the Chicago City Morgue.

-Joe Siegel"

Such a magnanimous guy, that Siegel. Memories of my gambling predicament came flooding back. I was thousands in debt to Siegel (who was indeed the bullet-riddled owner of Joe's Bar, by the way) thanks to a nasty habit of spending my free time in his casino, gambling away everything I owned. I was still a boxer then, and I let Siegel rig my fights as a way to pay off my debts. Word got out that I was taking dives, and my boxing career was ruined. Worst of all, that bastard Siegel still said my debt wasn't fully paid off. I tried my luck as a private eye with the hopes of getting the money for him, but business had been slow.

I could vaguely remember getting that letter, as well as doing some sort of job for somebody, but that's where my memories went all fuzzy. Then I recalled the photo of the fat woman I had found in Siegel's dashboard. It all came back to me…she was the same "wealthy woman" from the letter! Her name was Mrs. Sternwood, and I remembered how her husband, John, had approached me a few days earlier. He said she had been kidnapped, and according to the ransom note, I was the bagman. John Sternwood…the same guy mentioned in the diary! Jeez, things were getting complex.

Had I kidnapped Mrs. Sternwood on Siegel's orders? I couldn't be sure. That part of my memory was still kinda hazy, but I had a hunch where I might find her. And if I was right, she wasn't going to be in any mood to help me out. It was time to head back to Joe's Bar. I could easily recall the address of that place now: 1060 South Peoria Street. Hell, I practically used to gamble there every night. Before I left to call on Mrs. Sternwood, though, I grabbed a syringe and some Sodium Pentothal from Brody's office. You know what they say: it ain't over 'till the fat lady sings.


	4. Chapter 4

The jigsaw puzzle of my memory was just about complete thanks to the Bisodiumitis, but a few pieces were still missing; everything that had happened in the hours before my awakening in the bathroom stall was nothing more than a blur. Still, if Siegel had played a role in Mrs. Sternwood's kidnapping, I knew of one particular place that would be worth checking out.

I stood at the trunk of the Mercedes parked in front of Joe's Bar, car key in hand. Was my theory on Mrs. Sternwood correct? Only one way to find out. I unlocked the trunk, the door rising into the air with a creak; there she was before me, the broadest broad in the world, John Sternwood's wife. Her hands and legs were all tied up, and I probably would've mistaken her for dead if it weren't for the rhythmic rising and falling of her chest.

I took the cloth gag out of her mouth and clapped my hands by her head. No response. "Anybody in there?" I asked, placing my mouth up to her ear. Nothing. She was out cold. The kidnappers had probably drugged her up before sticking her in the trunk. But of course, Ace has a solution for everything. Thanks to the wonders of Sodium Pentothal, she stopped making with the silent treatment.

"Please take me home," she muttered after a dose of truth serum, speaking in her tranquilizer-induced beauty sleep. "Please take me to 626 Auburn Road."

That was all I got out of Mrs. Sternwood, and that was all I needed. I would've liked to remove her from the trunk, but there wasn't a man alive, myself included, who could carry an object of that mass without somebody else's help. Color me cynical, but I think that asking for assistance in lifting a gargantuan, hog-tied broad - and an unconscious one at that - would evoke more than a bit of suspicion. One look at Madame Sternwood would probably result in a tip-off to the cops, so I simply closed the trunk and walked away with her still inside. In my defense, she seemed pretty happy the way she was. I'd probably be too if I were doped up with sedatives.

I considered driving the Mercedes seeing how I wasn't feeling so disoriented anymore, but I shuddered to think what would happen if the cops pulled me over and discovered what I was lugging around in the trunk. Besides, my chariot awaited; the taxi was just as capable of bringing me to the Sternwood Home.

Actually, "Sternwood Mansion" was a more appropriate way to describe it. Boy, those Sternwoods had one hell of an estate. A path that must've been a mile long stretched from the sidewalk to the front door of their million-dollar manor, but it just didn't feel right to head down there without doing a bit of snooping first. Opening the mailbox sitting atop a post driven into their lawn, I was greeted with a strange note composed entirely of newspaper cutouts.

"Mr. Sternwood,

Your wife is in our possession. Any attempt to contact the police will result in her untimely demise. If you value her life, place $20,000 in a suitcase and be standing at the corner of Peoria and Elm at midnight tomorrow. You will receive further instructions then."

Midnight…what had I been doing around midnight? Everything from that time frame was so damn hazy. I didn't think I would ever get that chunk of memory back. All I could do was hope for something that would fill in the details for me.

I stuck the ransom letter in my pocket and made my way to the Sternwood residence. That mansion was huge, all right. Walking down the nigh-endless pathway, I could feel it looming over me like a distant mountain on the horizon; must've taken me half an hour just to reach the front door.

Everything was unnecessarily fancy at Sternwood Manor; instead of just knocking on the carved oak door with your fist, you were supposed to use this brass lion's head with a knocker attached to it. I'll never understand the rich.

I gave a few knocks (With my fist, mind you, not the knocker. Take that, establishment!) and the muffled clack-clack of footsteps on tile could be heard from behind the door as it slowly creaked open. Standing tall before me was a tuxedo-clad butler, his hands clasped behind his back as he cast a scrutinizing gaze upon me. That guy was so stiff you'd think he bathed in starch.

"I have been given strict orders not to allow unannounced callers into the house," the butler informed me in a dry tone. "I daresay the master would be less than pleased if I let just anyone off the street wander into his home, especially while he is asleep. Good night, sir."

And with that, the butler shut the door in my face before I could reply. Where have the manners gone in this day and age? I knocked again; the door reopened.

"I believe I have already explained…"

Ol' Jeeves never finished that thought, for a right hook to the temple sent him tumbling to the ground. I really do miss being a boxer, you know. Sidestepping his unconscious body, I found myself standing in the marble-tiled vestibule of the opulent mansion. Sternwood sure knew how to live the good life. I could see why the diary writer wanted him to be her sugar daddy.

I climbed the spiral staircase leading to the second floor, listening to the sound of my footsteps echo throughout the cavernous room, and quietly opened the door at the top of the stairs. Tiptoeing my way into the master bedroom, I immediately recognized the folks sleeping in the comfortable-looking bed; the woman was Marsha Vickers, Siegel's secretary. I remembered seeing her occasionally at Joe's Bar back in my gambling days. The man was John Sternwood, the same guy who'd approached me after his wife was kidnapped.

The scent of cheap perfume emanated from Vicker's direction, making the bedroom smell exactly like the bungalow as well as the secretary's room at the bar. It looked like Miss Vickers was the mysterious writer of the diary. Apparently, she'd finally realized her dream of running away with Sternwood.

I gingerly opened the nightstand on Sternwood's side of the bed, finding a letter and a notepad. I started my latest round of snooping by looking over the letter.

"Mr. Sternwood,

This is my final warning. If you don't keep your hands off Vickers once and for all, I'll make sure your wife knows all about your little trysts. Perhaps I'll notify the press as well. Somehow, I don't think your corporation will benefit if word gets out about how you spend your free time. Vickers belongs to me: if you really want her that badly, you can pay for her. She'll cost you 20 grand. I expect an answer by tomorrow.

-Joe Siegel"

Vickers sure wasn't kidding when she wrote in her diary about what a jealous bastard Siegel was. I wasn't the only one with good reason to hate his guts.

Sternwood's notepad was blank, but I could see a few indentations left from when someone had written on the now-missing sheet above it. They were too light to read, but naturally, I was able to work around that problem; I still had the pencil I took from Siegel's desk. Shading in the indentations, I was able to make out the text. It looked like some sort of timetable.

"Completed: Send fake Siegel letter to Ace, have Marsha answer Ace's telephone call and give him instructions.

12:00 am - Make sure the Mrs. is bound, gagged, and unconscious. Wait by bar door for Ace. Knock him out, take him to back room, and follow drug procedure. Take his gun.

1:00 am - Wait for Siegel's arrival. When he reaches office, shoot him with Ace's gun. Put Ace in stall. Put gun back in holster, and put Siegel's possessions - lighter, wallet, etc. - on Ace. Make sure Ace's prints are on gun and Siegel's blood is on Ace's hand.

1:30 am - Put the Mrs. into the trunk of Siegel's car. Put kidnapping material in dashboard. Lock up and leave. Pick up hit man at meeting point. Bring him to Ace's office (use duplicate key). Plant copy of fake Siegel letter in Ace's desk. Tell hit man to wait in office approx. 6 hours, in case Ace wizens up. Upon returning home, plant fake ransom note in mailbox."

So it was a frame-up! Vickers must have told John Sternwood all about my debts, and Sternwood went ahead and used me in a plan to get rid of both Siegel and his wife! I was tempted to shoot both of them right then and there, but my revolver was out of bullets. It was for the best, anyhow; murder isn't the smartest way to get revenge. Besides, everything I needed to even the score with those two scumbags was already in my possession.

It was only a matter of time before the flatfoots came looking for me, what with the history between the late Joe Siegel and myself. I figured I'd better find the police before the police found me, and I could only imagine that the cops would be interested to learn what I had discovered. I remembered seeing a police station not too far from Joe's Bar; it was time to take one last trip in the taxi.

I told the cabbie to take me back to Peoria Street. You know, I'd actually grown kinda attached to him. I guess you could say he was the closest thing I had to a friend in what was undeniably the worst experience of my life. Without him ferrying me around Chicago, I would've been screwed the moment I stepped out onto the streets.

We soon pulled up near the newsstand on Peoria Street, which happened to be where I'd flagged down the taxi in the first place. I had finally come full circle.

"Well, this is my last stop," I informed the cabbie as I slid some quarters into the fare slot for the final time. "Thanks for your help."

"Hell, I should be thanking you, mac! Most night shifts, I'm lucky if I get half of what you've paid. If you don't mind me asking, what was keepin' you so busy?"

"You read the papers?"

"Yeah."

"Keep your eyes peeled," I said, stepping out of the cab. "Be on the lookout for any articles that mention someone called 'Ace Harding.' You'll learn everything soon enough, my friend."

"Whatever you say, mac," replied the cabbie before driving off into the night. I was really gonna miss him.

There were only a few things I'd need to take care of before paying a visit to the flatfoots. First, I went back to the bathroom at Joe's Bar and washed the dried blood off my hands. When you're a suspect in a murder case, you've gotta make yourself presentable.

Second, I made my way to the bar's cellar. I remembered the hidden shaft that lead to the sewers; before my gambling fiasco made us mortal enemies, Siegel had told me all about it. He said he built the shaft as a way to escape if the cops ever raided his casino. Siegel may have been a bastard, but I have to admit he was a clever one, too.

I climbed down the shaft ladder and dropped my revolver into the sewers, watching it splash into the murky water and disappear beneath the surface. I may have had plenty of evidence against Sternwood and Vickers, but frankly, I've never placed much trust in the coppers. If they got a hold of the murder weapon - covered with my prints, no less - I couldn't help but think that they'd try to pin the crime on me.

The Chicago sewer system is not a pretty place, by the way, nor is it pretty-smelling. I had no intention of taking in those noxious fumes any longer than I needed to, so I got out of there as fast as possible. I think my eyesight must be going south, 'cause as I was climbing back up the ladder, I could've sworn I saw something that looked like an alligator swimming in the sewer water. I don't know what it was, but it couldn't have really been a 'gator. I mean, come on, who ever heard of alligators living in the sewer? I don't know why people buy into that urban legend crap.

Well, I had done everything I could. The only thing left now was to head to the police station. I walked down Peoria Street, trying to stay calm as my heart pounded away like a jackhammer. What was going to happen to me? Would the evidence I'd found be enough to get me off the hook? My train of thought was suddenly disrupted as a woman stepped out in front of me: a woman that I knew all too well. That short red dress, the painted face…I'd recognize her anywhere. Why did it have to be her? It could've been any woman in the world! Why did it have to be Sugar?

"Ace, baby, don't give me that look! I know it's been awhile, but surely you haven't forgotten about your sweet little Sugar!"

I hadn't forgotten about her, all right. There's no way in hell I could ever forget about, ahem, "sweet" little Sugar. She was my ex-girlfriend, extra emphasis on the "ex." We had split long before I became a private eye, but the fact that I once took on the case of a guy she was blackmailing and uncovered the evidence needed to put her behind bars wasn't exactly setting the stage for a reconciliation between us.

"I just got out of prison…and I wouldn't have been there in the first place if it weren't for you. But, my dear, it's so good to see you again," she remarked bitterly, narrowing her eyes. "I was hoping I'd run into that darling Joe Siegel, too."

You can add Sugar to the ever-growing list of people who hated Siegel. Something happened between them a long time ago, though I don't know what. Never really bothered to ask. Sugar probably would've been thrilled to learn that Siegel had been plugged, but I decided against telling her. If I knew Sugar - and, unfortunately for me, I did - she always had something up her sleeve. If you don't stay on guard around her, the consequences can be disastrous.

"Since I couldn't find Siegel, I planted a little surprise for him under the hood of his car. Some pals of mine from prison taught me a thing or two about explosives. My only regret is that I can't be around to watch dear old Joe go up in flames when he starts that thing!"

Good thing I hadn't tried driving Siegel's car. I could see Sugar was just as psychotic as ever.

"I have a surprise for you too, Ace!" she exclaimed as she stuck her hand into her purse. Knowing Sugar, it wouldn't be safe to wait around and find out what this "surprise" was. A quick uppercut left her sprawled out along the sidewalk.

I bent down to look through the purse that lay on the concrete next to its unconscious owner; it held a cylinder of lipstick and a cheap-looking, fully loaded revolver. Somehow, I doubted that the lipstick was the "surprise" my ex had in mind for me. Oh Sugar, will you ever learn to let bygones be bygones?

With that taken care of, I was truly free to make my way to the police station. The coppers were certainly glad to see me when I showed up. And what happened from there? A long story. I eventually wound up in a courtroom, in the midst of the trial of the century. The evidence against me? Not much, just my history with Siegel. The evidence against Marsha Vickers and John Sternwood? Everything I had found throughout my investigation: chiefly, the diary, the timetable, and Siegel's letter to Sternwood.

My investigation had painted a pretty vivid picture of a Vickers-John Sternwood conspiracy to take out Siegel and Mrs. Sternwood, and frame the entire deal on me. Miss Vickers and her sugar daddy were grilled for hours on end in court. Following a brutal interrogation by my lawyer, Vickers finally broke down and revealed everything. John Sternwood and Marsha Vickers are now locked up in prison somewhere, each waiting their turn in the electric chair.

In case you're wondering, Mrs. Sternwood was indeed rescued from the trunk of the Mercedes. I made sure to let the cops know exactly where she was. It didn't take long for the wealthy soon-to-be-widow to get over her husband, by the way; if the rumors I've heard are true, her butler ain't just her butler anymore.

As for me, I got off scot-free. My gambling debt died with Siegel, and thanks to the free publicity from the trial, anyone in Chicago who's looking for a private eye immediately thinks "Ace Harding." Business at my office is booming. It was a hell of an ordeal to clear my name, but it certainly paid off in the end. Why, I even met that cabbie again! He had seen my name in the papers, and once the trial was over, he came straight to me. He said he was trying to catch the Peeping Tom that spied on his wife at night, and I gladly took on his case. Turned out the peeper was the cabbie's brother, who had apparently taken a fancy to the wife. You should've heard the exchange between the two brothers after I revealed the peeper's identity. I don't believe I've ever heard so many curses in such a short amount of time.

I'm no Aesop, but I guess you could say there's a moral to my story: never try to frame a guy for a crime he didn't commit. You just might be messing with someone who'll go to the ends of this earth to prove his innocence, someone who'll make sure you suffer for screwing with him. You just might be messing with someone like me.

They don't call me "Ace" for nothing.

-The End-


End file.
